


Home is Where the Heart Is

by maiaran



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo dealing with the ups and downs of guilt, Generalized Sappy Ending, M/M, Romance, hobbit kink meme fill, long overdue apologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiaran/pseuds/maiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apologies don't always go as planned or, in Bilbo's case, as not planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> _Anonymous asked:_
> 
>  
> 
> _Bilbo and Bofur are an item! That can happen in any time along the story. Basically through the story or after, or both, settling in the Shire, Bilbo makes sure Bofur knows that he does have a home and he does belong - with Bilbo._
> 
> This prompt was far too sweet to ignore, though I did differ some (maybe quite a bit) and I apologize for that. Still I hope you enjoy it and it's somewhat, sorta, kinda what you were looking for. 
> 
> Please feel free to point out any typos and helpful crit is always appreciated!
> 
> I didn't realize 'Bofur's Hat' was a character option.

 

There were many things Bilbo had heard - before and during their quest - that he would never forget; the shrill cries of wargs in the night that sent fear racing straight down his spine, the comforting crackle of a fire, Gandalf’s questioning and his frustration, the song sung in his front room that fateful night and the many others that followed, being only a few. They were all sounds and tones that had changed him in some way or another, ones that would stick as far as his years would take him and, hopefully, well beyond.

He didn’t want to forget those things and worried that when old age had taken its toll on his mind and body, he would.

So as the halls around him had flourished, the days passing with more and more good news from the tunnels and mines, Bilbo began to write.

He wrote little things at first, descriptions of his companions and short stories of the Shire. He minced his way through a poem or two, a sketch of a map, and an ill-favored scribble of a troll (though the resemblance had been quite shocking). But even as he tried to fight the worry, there was one memory that shone brightly in the back of his mind, never fading and as fresh as it had been the night he’d heard it for the first time.

_‘We don’t belong anywhere.’_

Bilbo could still see the fall in Bofur’s face as he’d said the words, the image sharp and clear in his mind. It was a look that had been prompted by selfish actions; ones he was ashamed to admit had been his own. The dwarf had done little more than try to encourage him, make him feel accepted when he had needed it most, shaken to the core by both the fall he’d almost taken and Thorin’s words, and Bilbo had thrown it back in his face, frustrated and taking it out on the wrong person.

It was certainly not his finest moment, and though he doubted it would be his last misstep, the knowledge didn’t ease the regret any.

Even now, surrounded by the wealth of Erebor and the vast halls of the city, the words found a way to echo in his mind, ringing around the lofty ceilings and peaks in the late hours of the evening.

He needed to apologize – but how always seemed to be the question.

Sighing, Bilbo rubbed his hands over his face and slid out of bed. It was clear he wouldn’t be getting any sleep, feathered mattress or not, and wasting time had never been something he’d been particularly good at – unless he had his pipe on hand, of course, and a good bit of leaf. The books and quills on his desk called to him as he passed by but he ignored them, selecting a simple waistcoat and tan trousers. He couldn’t very well go out in his nightclothes, after all, and he needed to get out of his room while the desire was still fresh, the guilt still too hot to ignore.

He was, to put it simply, tired of overthinking his words when he’d spent half the trip unable to hold his tongue. He’d considered gifts, even a proper bouquet for an apology but Erebor wasn’t known for its gardens for a reason, it seemed, and that had ruled that idea out immediately.

No, there were no trinkets or baubles, nothing pretty and frivolous (or useless, more like) that would make up for what he’d said, back in the mountain pass.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to himself, tugging the soft fabric of his shirt. “There, not that hard.”

But as he made his way down to the Tinkers Hall, steps heavy on the stone paths, the words began to stick in his chest and by the time he’d stopped before Bofur’s door, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, too clumsy and tangled.

Nervousness bubbled in the pit of his stomach and he turned away, rocking back on his heels before stepping back down the hall.

Perhaps this hadn’t been the best of ideas after— _No._

No, no, _no._

Swinging back around, lips pursed as he shook his head at himself, he squared his shoulders and marched back up to the door.

_No_ , he would not be the coward Thorin had thought him to be when they’d first set out. He was long past being the hobbit that hid in the rooms of Bag End, ignoring the knocks that came and the company that wished to call. His hands weren’t as soft as they used to be and his days as one of the gentlefolk had come and gone, taking with it the care for his mother’s silver and mud on the carpets, and any number of other things he could hardly remember anymore.

He was more than that.

He was Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit who had gone on an adventure and lived to tell the tale. He had journeyed with kings and wizards, dwarrow and men.

An apology was hardly too much to ask, especially if it was for Bofur.

Nodding sharply to himself, Bilbo ignored the warmth on his cheeks and lifted a hand, rapping his knuckles against the door.

He _would_ do this and he _would_ put a stop the blasted lurch in his chest that came every time he heard the damning words ringing in his own mind. They were muddled, for the most part, and set something in his chest to aching, first hot then cold, until the weight slid down to his stomach and eating no longer seemed like such a fair option.

At his sides, his fingers twitched and he swallowed thickly, glancing around the hall before rubbing at his chest to try and ease it.

He _wanted_ to apologize – truly, he did.

But he also wanted to _sleep_ – without worrying. He wanted to start the morning without wondering whether Bofur had truly forgiven him or whether his thoughtless words had broken what friendship they’d had.

Perhaps that made him selfish, but he wanted – _needed_ – those things and he was the only one that could fix them.

So why hadn’t he?

The question, as many of them often did, brought along a slew of answers Bilbo wasn’t ready to deal with.

He knew what the tickling sensation at the back of his mind was. He’d heard of the aches that drew hearts together and the blows that dealt them the most pain. All of his reading hadn’t been for naught, but right now was neither the time, nor the place, to dwell on fanciful thoughts, too bogged down with a hopeless weight he was trying to lift.

Thankfully, he had not long to wait before there was a shuffling sound, the grumbled call of someone inside, and then the door swung open, revealing a rumbled Bofur in a nightshirt and his ever present hat.

Really, did he ever take that thing off?

“Bilbo?”

Lifting his hands, Bilbo held them out to stop him, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I said something unforgivable and I’m sorry.”

Bofur stared at him, head tipping slightly in a questioning look Bilbo had seen a good many times in their travels. It was another of those things he hoped not to forget; a look as much soft, as it was sincere, and it made him look years younger, less rough around the edges, and Bilbo found it never failed to soften whatever he was feeling at the time.

Now was no different.

“For what?”

Dropping his hands, he sighed. “For telling you that you didn’t belong anywhere.”

The surprise was written over his face clear as day and, for a brief moment, Bilbo felt a surge of guilt for even bringing it up. It was obviously a sore spot, after all and, really, he was mucking this up something great wasn’t he? First the mountain and then the weeks – no, the _months_ – of not saying anything, just letting it hang between them and—

“I never took an offense, you know, none of us would’a. You were right – we didn’t belong anywhere,” Bofur said with a shrug.

“No.” Bilbo shook his head again, trying to ignore the relief Bofur’s small smile brought. He came here to do something and he wouldn’t let it be brushed aside. “No, you do belong somewhere and you did before. You – well, all of, you really… you will always have a place, whether it is in this mountain or not, I – that is to say–“ He huffed, frustration making his face feel hot and his palms sweat, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, blast it. You’ll _always_ belong, Bofur. Always – where ever I am, you… you have a _home_.”

Bilbo snapped his mouth closed a second too late. The words had already left his mouth and, more than a little shocked by the tone that had taken, he almost kicked himself. Bofur’s shoulders were tense, his little outburst clearly not well received at all and he hurried to spit out an apology.

“I- I’m very- I’m _quite_ sorry, I have _no_ idea what came over me, that was—“

When Bofur’s hands cupped his cheeks and the dwarf touched their foreheads together, Bilbo felt all of the words scrabbling to come out die on the tip of his tongue.

He could feel the warm breath mixing with his own, the soft scratch of Bofur’s palms, and he froze when he felt, more than heard, a quiet laugh.

“You can’t say things like that and expect me t’stand here just watching you, _Mister_ _Baggins_.”

His tone was soft – too soft – and it made Bilbo’s chest too feel warm, too tight in the confines of his waistcoat, and his hands shook as he lifted them to grip Bofur’s arms. He should step back. He should move and he was a Baggins of Bag End. He was a proper Hobbit, if not a gentle one anymore, and proper Hobbits didn’t cling to the arms of anyone, much less someone in their nightclothes.

Yet, perhaps he wasn’t so very proper after all, because cling he did, leaning into the steady touch without another thought.

He _was_ selfish.

And he might not get another chance, so he would savor it, just this once throwin propriety to the wind.

“I couldn’t let it sit any longer,” he mumbled. “I’m truly, very sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant, you know.”

No, Bilbo supposed it wasn’t but he didn’t have a chance to question it, and in the moment Bofur’s lips brushed against his, he realized didn’t need to.

It was obvious and it brought with it all of those memories he’d been holding fast to. All of those touches and smiles, the jokes, the advice and the frienship; he couldn’t let those things go. He _wouldn’t_ let them go because this was what he’d wanted. _Bofur_ was what he wanted.

He’d known for some time – that there’d been something there, in the light in Bofur’s eyes, the teasing laughter – the same light that had faded the second the words had left Bilbo’s mouth, cutting through the honeyed warmth that had seemed so strong.

He needed that light – craved it, even – and his arms looped around Bofur’s neck as he pressed into the kiss, stumbling along when he was pulled because he hadn’t dared to really hope for more than, at most, the acceptance of his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again, peppering the apology with little kisses and, though he should have been upset, he couldn’t help a small smile when Bofur laughed.

“Stop that. In case you hadn’t noticed, all was forgiven ages ago.”

“Not for that.”

Bofur sighed, exasperated but playful, as he reached out to knock the door shut behind them. “Then for what this time, hm?”

“For being selfish, for letting you walk all over what was supposed to be a much better apology, mind you, with kisses and all of the things I’ve wanted for so long, Bofur.”

“Bilbo...“

“You have a home,” Bilbo continued, stepping back enough to grip Bofur’s hand and drag it up to his chest. He pressed their palms flat, sliding them beneath the thin cloth of his shirt and he sighed, leaning into the touch. “Here – you _always_ have a home here.”

 


End file.
